Participants:
| Scene Title | Familiar Ground |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Where the future is concerned, one cannot have enough contingency plans. |
| Date | September 29, 2010 |
The White House
Staring out the square panes of glass onto the sun-dappled front lawn of the White House, Vice President Andrew Mitchell's expression is a longing one. Brows furrowed, stare distant and hands folded behind his back, he could be the picture of a stoic President guiding the country through troubled times, except that Andrew Mitchell did not win the seat of Presidency by any means, legitimate or not. That Nathan Petrelli runs this country boils in his veins, and that Nathan's pet projects take precedence over his own agenda for the future is bile in his mouth.
A knock on the door of the oval office draws Mitchell's attention away from the sunlit vista of the front lawn, turning to walk past the resolute desk as the door opens, revealing a White House Intern, clip-board held close to her chest. "Mister Vice President, sir." Her blonde head nods out into the hall. "Agent Martin is here to see you."
"Send him in…" Mitchell intones, moving to stand behind one of the paired sofas, his hands coming down to rest on the back. "You can go, Nancy."
As the intern departs from the doorway, her sleight frame makes way for a taller, more broad-shouldered gentleman in a sleek gray suit to enter. Horn-rimmed glasses adorn his brow, a crooked smile spread across his lips as he walks into the office, slowly closing the door behind himself. Agent Martin offers a look across the oval office to Mitchell, one brow raised.
"So," he notes with marked interest, looking to the vacant desk, then back to the Vice President, "I take it you're the reason I was called off assignment?" Mitchell has no answer for Agent Martin, not yet. There is silence, a narrowed-eyed look, and then a laugh from the dour man as he drums his fingers on the back of the sofa.
"You have some nerve, I'll give you that, Agent." Mitchell narrows his eyes, just a touch then leans off of the back of the sofa and begins walking back to the resolute desk. "Yes, I'm the one who called you off your present assignment. Playing patty-cake with the President's freak show at the Institute is the last thing I need your skills being wasted on, agent Martin."
Mitchell turns, halfway across the room, to look back at the man in the horn-rimmed glasses. "I need your unique skill-set in serving as a fail-safe for a project of mine…" That Mitchell seems hesitant to full explain draws Agent Martin's brows together into a furrow behind the frames of his glasses, his approach around the sofa to the Vice President slow and stalking.
"Go on," the man in the horn-rimmed glasses notes with one brow lifted, "but I don't expect this is officially sanctioned, is it?"
Mitchell's brows tense as he considers the agent, looking askance at him before turning to look down at the desk's old and worn surface. Black eyes stare down at the scratches in the desk, the calendar laid out on its surface, the phone beside the desk lamp. Details. The Devil's in those, or so the saying goes.
"No, this is strictly off the books. I need you to head to New York City for me," Mitchell looks up from the desk and over to Agent Martin, who lifts one brow slowly in consideration of the location. "I have an operative that needs your backup. He'll have further instructions for you." Mitchell reaches inside the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a folded piece of paper, offered out underhanded to the agent.
The paper is regarded with silent scrutiny for a moment before it's taken from Mitchell's hand. "How long is this going to take?" One of his brows lift in curiosity, unfolding the piece of paper and lifting a brow again as he sees the name on the slip, crumpling it up and stuffing it into the pocket of his slacks.
"A month, give or take," Mitchell explains, turning to stand by the windows overlooking the front lawn. "You'll be done before Thanksgiving," Mitchell offers with a wryness, looking out of the corner of his eyes to the man in the horn-rimmed glasses, seeing the agent already turning his back. "That's it?" Mitchell queries, turning to face the retreating agent.
"That's it," agent MMartin explains, marching towards the door, reaching out and turning to look back at the Vice-President with a knife-thin smile cuts across his mouth. "You wanted me because you wanted someone to get the job done, right?" Mitchell has nothing to say in response, just a smile and a raise of his brows, turning back to look out the window again.
He won't see agent Martin leave, but he'll hear the door close behind him. Truth be told though…
…he never saw agent Martin arrive either.